


Wraith

by Karks55



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Insanity, Murder, Not very graphic but murder is involved, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 13:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16451108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karks55/pseuds/Karks55
Summary: A wraith drifts listlessly through what was once his home.





	Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is just a writing exercise I did for class that I really loved. Sorry its so short, maybe I'll actually write something longer someday, but that takes waaaaaayyyyy more commitment and time than I have right now, so here's one of my little ramblings/side works. I hope you enjoy!

Why were we condemned to fall into ruin? Was I so foolish as to believe that our love may prevail? I acted in willful ignorance of the demons whispering in the ear of my beloved, and, despite my inaction, I hoped beyond hope that she may be victorious in her fruitless battle against them. However, it was not to be. My prayers and my love were not bright enough to shine away her encroaching shadows. And so, I reaped the fruits that I had sewn: when her remaining threads of sanity frayed and snapped, I remained by her side awaiting my final end. This moment that I had been anticipating with unease, which I had hoped and prayed was not to come, was the first and last moment in which I intrinsically knew myself to be correct. My sight, for the first time since before I had met my beloved, was not tainted by my love for her. I am, at the very least, thankful that she was merciful; my demise was swift and painless, a flick of her wrist and I was departed from the world. I now drift amongst the specks of dust, an agonized spectator of the life of the shell who was once my beloved.  


A powerful, pungent, and repulsive odor like that of garbage left out to ferment in the sun looms heavily in the air of what was once our home. Are my remains tucked within the walls? Under the floorboards? What else could secrete an odor so foul? My eyes rake across the room, inspecting the intricate woodwork for inconsistencies where one might peel back a board to conceal a carcass. A faded speck of crimson looms in the corner of my eye. It appears as though time has failed in its efforts to scrub this hint of my demise from the peeling floorboards. I kneel to brush my translucent fingers across the splatter of my remains. Under pressure, the boards arch and splinters shed easily from the brittle wood. The cracks beneath my fingers read like braille, telling the story of our life, love, and destruction. Absently, I touch my fingers to my tongue. Some may claim that this is proof of my own encroaching insanity: to attempt to taste my own flesh, however; I would claim that it is simply the product of eternal boredom and a morbid curiosity. There is no burst of flavor or wondrous realization as I may have privately hoped, only the dry taste of iron that is uniquely both repulsive and calming all at once. As I attempt to continue in my thoughtless analysis of my home I am struck by the most blatant and bone-chilling observation of all: silence. Life is lived with sound: an infant’s cries, a bird’s song, the wind’s whistle. But in this house that was once my home, there is only the sound of death. There is only silence.


End file.
